


The Christmas Memory Tree

by FMJemena2



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: 2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, The Watson-Holmes Family, christmaslock, grandparentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28096083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FMJemena2/pseuds/FMJemena2
Summary: Set in the future. Rosie and her family spend Christmas with her parents, John and Sherlock Watson-Holmes and their friends.I hope you will like the story. Thank you in advance for any kudos/comments.For the Dec. 15 prompt, "Decorating a Tree."  (Thank you for the opportunity, Lauren LeClair.)Not Brit-picked or betaed.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24
Collections: 2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style





	The Christmas Memory Tree

The smell of caramel apples is the first thing that hits the Holmes family when they step out of their hotel.

“Ooh, how lovely, Ma! Do you think we can buy some?” Edwina pleads, her large brown eyes shining, fingers clasping and twisting. Rosie smiles at her five year-old, unwilling to say No, but knows she must. However, before she could speak, her husband, Torrance, does.

“If we did, you’d be too full to eat dinner at your grandparents. You know how sad that makes your Grandpa John.”

When the young girl’s expression falls at that, her elder brother, Rochie, takes her hand. “Come on, Eddie! There’s still tomorrow. We’ll be going to Uncle Mycroft’s and he always has caramel apples for us.”

At that, Edwina brightens and skips ahead several paces with her brother. 

-0-

The flat is full. Molly and Greg and their children, Harry and Clara, Rosie and her family, Sherlock and John. Only Mycroft and his family are not there, having been forced to attend an important ambassador’s ball as one of the King’s representatives. 

“The dining table looks as if one of your experiments exploded on it,” John whispers happily to his husband as they clear away the mess. In the sitting room, the adults are chatting. Greg’s daughter by his first marriage, Marie the astronaut, regales the young ones with stories of her first trip to the moon. 

Sherlock grunts agreement, frowning at the eggnog he is making. 

“Don’t forget: the children’s eggnog are whiskey-free.”

“Where’s the fun in that? At Rochie’s age, I tasted my first ale. At 14, my first smoke.”

John chuckles. “And when did you say fuck for the first time?”

“FUCK!” Edwina shouts, arms raise in delight, then hastily embraces one of Shérlock’s legs to rub her face on it. 

The flat is silent for a minute. Then it erupts: the Lestrade twins chant fuck fuck fuck, Molly and Greg admonish their kids; Marie and Rochie laugh, Harry and Clara giggle, Rosie and Torrance, well, they couldn’t decide whether to laugh or be dismayed. 

“Five, “ Sherlock says as John looks at him. “I was five.”

-0-

It is near 11 o’clock and some of the guests have left two hours ago. The unwrapped gifts are piled under the Christmas tree. Harry and Clara are sleeping overnight downstairs, at the former 221A, since it now doubles as guestroom and file room. (The whole townhouse is owned by John and Sherlock since Mrs. Hudson left it to them when she joined her Maker ten years ago.) 

Only Rosie and her family are still up with Sherlock and John. They will sleep in John’s former room. 

John sits crosslegged on the floor, Rochie sound asleep on his lap. Sherlock reclines on the brown leather wingback chair which Rosie bought for him while studying in Florence. Rosie lies on her side on the sofa, her head on Torrance’s lap. She is caressing her 7-month belly. Torrance idly cards his fingers in her hair. They stare at the dancing flames in the fireplace. On the table are mugs of chocolate, all near empty. Outside the two windows, snow drift down slowly. Whatever occupies the grownups’ minds, they seem to keep the cold at bay. 

Only Edwina is doing something else. Drowsy, but refusing to give in to sleep, she investigates the Christmas tree. It is unlike anything she has ever seen before. Granted, she and her family have been living in New York for two years now. She also does not remember her earliest Christmases in London. 

She touches and examines closely the decorations. Aside from tinsels, lovely glass balls, and twinkling lights, the tall tree has tiny framed pictures of her family and people she does not know; a picture of strange old village; four glass lockets containing hair locks (black and silver; golden brown and gold, dark brown, dark blond). Porcelain things like a tiny violin and some others. Laminated Smiley icons. Why? 

“For us to remember our loved ones and the things we value,” her Grandpa John says as he sits beside her. Rochie is on grandpa’s chair, owlishly gazing at her.

John plucks out two tiny photos of a baby boy and a baby girl high in the tree. “Here are you and your brother, when you were born. Those are special days in our lives.” He turns them over and reads to her, “ _John Rochester W. Holmes, born 21 July 20___.... Edwina Caroline W. Holmes, born 8 September 20____. And when your baby brother is born, his picture will also be here. ”

“I call it a Christmas Memory Tree,” Grandpa Sherlock adds. 

“That’s romantic, Papa,” Rosie teases.

Sherlock beams at her. “Your Daddy’s questionable effect on me.” 

“Oi, it’s not questionable! You said during one anniversary that I have an overall salubrious effect on you. Mycroft agreed.”

“Mycroft was drunk at the time, too. And, since when have you officially agreed with him on anything? I call that betrayal.” Sherlock sniffs, huffs, then turns on his chair to present a haughty profile to the audience. 

Rochie chortles, then covers his mouth. Edwina and Torrance look at each other, uncertain. Rosie and John try to keep a straight face, but fail and burst out laughing. 

Seeing that Edwina is still a little bit worried, John rises on his knees, sticks out his tummy and huffs and puffs, then says in a mighty voice: " _Little pig, little pig, let me come in._ " 

Rosie, giggling, replies: " _No, no, by the hair of my chiny chin chin._ " She carefully moves onto the floor and draws Edwina into her arms.

Sherlock rises from his chair, stalks toward the mother and child in three high steps, and bellows, " _Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in._ " Edwina squeals and hides her face in her mother’s neck, body quivering in excitement. 

Sherlock turns to Rochie. “ _You’re next. Little pig, little pig, let me come in._ " 

Rochie curves into a ball, peeks out with a smile and says in a muffled voice, " _No, no, by the hair of my chiny chin chin._ "

But Sherlock grabs the boy, much to his delight. Rochie is deposited on his mother’s other side, before Sherlock sits down on the floor as well, leaning against his arms. 

“Do come here, Torrance, you are a part of the family, are you not?” The the man says without looking at his son-in-law. Torrance, still a bit shy of his in-laws, moves behind Rosie. John gives him a reassuring smile. 

Edwina pipes up. “Who is this, grandpa?” She has moved back to the Christmas tree. In her palm is an oval picture of a blonde woman holding a baby.

John answers, “That is Mary Morstan Watson. Your grandmother. She died when your mommy was 6 months old.” 

All the adults hold their breath, but there are ready answers prepared years ago. 

“Why did she die?” Edwina’s finger traces the blond hair idly.

“She was killed by a bad woman.” 

“Why?” 

Sherlock sits up, arms encircling his raised knees. “Because she saved me.” His face is impassive. John reaches out to clasp his hand tightly. His husband smiles at him.

Edwina looks at them, then at her brother. Rosie feels that some message passes between her children. At the same time, the baby in her womb kicks slightly as if in sympathy. She winces and massages her stomach. 

Rosie knows about Eurus. So does her husband. Although Torrance is a nephew of Sherlock and Mycroft on their cousins’ side, she prays that no one damaged like Eurus’ will ever come into her family. Or someone who will make the same choices as her mother did. 

John is aware of her worries. He has them, too. But he has come to terms with what may be a long time ago. “We can only love and nurture them the best we can,” her father told her during her first pregnancy. “We don’t own their souls and making their own decisions is part of growing up. If, like Eurus, there’s a missing neurological switch-off mechanism in her brain, as discovered when she died, let’s hope it is identified early on.” 

Her father gave her a piercing look. “Don’t worry so. You are Mary’s child, Rosie. As well as mine and Sherlock’s. But you are also your own person. You are Rosamund Catherine Watson and you are alright.” 

She embraced her dad after that. Still, she worries and so, she prays. She suspects her papa worries, too, hence his slight wariness of Torrance. Her husband guesses the reason, but agrees with John. 

Edwina goes to Sherlock and hugs him. “Will you tell us the story someday?” 

“When we’re older and can understand,” Rochie adds wisely. 

John smiles. “How did we get so lucky to have you two?” 

\--0--

“That was taken on our wedding day at the registry office.” 

No other words are forthcoming from either grandparent. Sherlock and John only have that quiet, proud, and content expression on their faces that Rosie and others have frequently seen over the years. Now, Rochie and Edwina see it as well. It is deep and abiding. No words needed. 

\--0--

“Your parents’ wedding in Ghana.” Rochie squints at the smiling couple surrounded by people in colorful robes. 

“We weren’t there.” John’s face has a slightly sour expression. 

“Dad… We did apologize.” 

“But we were at their civil wedding here in London,” Sherlock adds hurriedly. “We were very happy… just lots of people. Mycroft was happy with the big cake. Your Aunt Anthea had to pull him home.” He clears his throat and nudges his husband with an elbow. “Come on, John. You know what love can do.” 

John returns his look and smiles. “Yes, that we do.” 

\--0--

“That’s Mrs. Hudson,” John says. “She was our landlady. You and Rochie would have loved her. Your momma did. She was like a mother and fairy godmother rolled into one.”

Edwina gasps. “Is she like Ella’s fairy godmother?” she asks.

“Hell, no!” Sherlock replies. “Much better.” 

“I still talk to her at times,” John says.

“So do I,” Sherlock replies. They look at each other. 

Rosie, who is now kneeling beside her daughter, turns over the picture frame. “What is this YouTube link?” 

“Sherlock!” John exclaims and glares at him. 

\--0--

“That is Angelo outside his restaurant. Your Grandpa John and I often eat there, although Angelo has retired years ago. His son runs it now. We used to bring your momma there as well.” 

“Did she like shrimp scampi with linguini, too?” Rochie inquires. 

“Yes, she did.” 

“Can we go to Angelo’s this week?” Rosie asks her parents wistfully. 

“Sure.” 

“I’ll have to beg out, darling,” Torrance says with an apologetic look at his wife. “The Peruvian UN team is requesting a meeting.”

“Guiliano will be very happy to see you again, Rosie. He’ll undoubtedly be the one to cook the scampi for you and pair it with his best dry, white wine.” Sherlock smiles at Torrance. “Old flame and all that. I’m sure she has told you.” 

Rosie blushes. “Is he alright after the divorce?” 

“He always asks us about you whenever we go there,” John adds.

Torrance checks his mobile phone. “I think the meeting can wait for next week. This is a vacation, after all.”

\--0—

“This this this.” Edwina waves the laminated Smileys at Sherlock.

John coughs and blushes furiously. 

“I think we’ll reserve that story also for when you’re older,” Rosie says firmly. Both parents refuse to look her in the eye.* 

\--0—

Edwina yawns. Rochie is almost asleep on his father’s lap, clutching tightly his new book on the solar system. John’s gift. 

“You still want more stories? We can continue them next time.” John tucks her hair behind one ear. 

“Last,” the girl insists. She points out at the glass lockets on the top of the tree.

John takes them down and give them to the little girl. “The dark brown hair is Rochie’s. Yours is the dark blond. The golden brown and gold hair tied together belong to your parents. The black and silver belong to us, your grandparents.”

“Why?” Edwina yawns out.

“I told you—for the memories.”

“No. Why?” 

John is stumped. Why? 

“Because this is how we love,” Sherlock explains, taking the lockets and hanging them again in their pride of place in the Christmas Memory Tree.

**Author's Note:**

> *Story for the prompts “Surprise" and "Romance" due next week for a different collection.   
> UPDATE: Here it is! SANTA BABY (https://archiveofourown.org/works/28288023)


End file.
